The inquest was nearly finished when, without any warning, Westray found himself, as by intuition, asking:
“The wound was such a one, you mean, as might have been produced by the blow of a hammer?”
The doctor seemed surprised, the jury and the little audience stared, but most surprised of all was Westray at his own question.
“You have no locus standi, sir,” the coroner said severely; “such an interrogation is irregular. You are to esteem it an act of grace if I allow the medical man to reply.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Ennefer, with a reserve in his voice that implied that he was not there to answer every irrelevant question that it might please foolish people to put to him—“yes, such a wound as might have been caused by a hammer, or by any other blunt instrument used with violence.”
“Even by a heavy stick?” Westray suggested.
The doctor maintained a dignified silence, and the coroner struck in:
“I must say I think you are wasting our time, Mr. Westray. I am the last person to stifle legitimate inquiry, but no inquiry is really needed here; it is quite certain that this poor man came to his end by falling heavily, and dashing his head against this wooden note in the pedals.”
“Is it quite certain?” Westray asked. “Is Dr. Ennefer quite sure that the wound could have been caused by a mere fall; I only want to know that Dr. Ennefer is quite sure.”
The coroner looked at the doctor with a deprecating glance, which implied apologies that so much unnecessary trouble should be given, and a hope that he would be graciously pleased to put an end to it by an authoritative statement.
“Oh, I am quite sure,” the doctor responded. “Yes”—and he hesitated for the fraction of a second—“oh yes, there is no doubt such a wound could be caused by a fall.”
“I merely wish to point out,” said Westray, “that the pedal-note on which he fell is to a certain extent a yielding substance; it would yield, you must remember, at the first impact.”
“That is quite true,” the doctor said; “I had taken that into account, and admit that one would scarcely expect so serious an injury to have been caused. But, of course, it was so caused, because there is no other explanation; you don’t suggest, I presume, that there was any foul play. It is certainly a case of accident or foul play.”
“Oh no, I don’t suggest anything.”
The coroner raised his eyebrows; he was tired, and could not understand such waste of time. But the doctor, curiously enough, seemed to have grown more tolerant of interruption.
“I have examined the injury very carefully,” he said, “and have come to the deliberate conclusion that it must have been caused by the wooden key. We must also recollect that the effect of any blow would be intensified by a weak state of health. I don’t wish to rake up anything against the poor fellow’s memory, or to say any word that may cause you pain, Mr. Westray, as his friend; but an examination of the body revealed traces of chronic alcoholism. We must recollect that.”
“The man was, in fact, a confirmed drunkard,” the coroner said. He lived at Carisbury, and, being a stranger both to Cullerne and its inhabitants, had no scruple in speaking plainly; and, besides this, he was nettled at the architect’s interference. “You mean the man was a confirmed drunkard,” he repeated.
“He was nothing of the kind,” Westray said hotly. “I do not say that he never took more than was good for him, but he was in no sense an habitual drunkard.”
“I did not ask your opinion,” retorted the coroner; “we do not want any lay conjectures. What do you say, Mr. Ennefer?”
The surgeon was vexed in his turn at not receiving the conventional title of doctor, the more so because he knew that he had no legal right to it. To be called “Mr.” demeaned him, he considered, in the eyes of present or prospective patients, and he passed at once into an attitude of opposition.
“Oh no, you quite mistake me, Mr. Coroner. I did not mean that our poor friend was an habitual drunkard. I never remember to have actually seen him the worse for liquor.”
“Well, what do you mean? You say the body shows traces of alcoholism, but that he was not a drunkard.”
“Have we any evidence as to Mr. Sharnall’s state on the evening of his death?” a juror asked, with a pleasant consciousness that he was taking a dispassionate view, and making a point of importance.
“Yes, we have considerable evidence,” said the coroner. “Call Charles White.”
There stepped forward a little man with a red face and blinking eyes. His name was Charles White; he was landlord of the Merrymouth Inn. The deceased visited his inn on the evening in question. He did not know deceased by sight, but found out afterwards who he was. It was a bad night, deceased was very wet, and took something to drink; he drank a fairish amount, but not that much, not more than a gentleman should drink. Deceased was not drunk when he went away.
“He was drunk enough to leave his topcoat behind him, was he not?” the coroner asked. “Did you not find this coat after he was gone?” and he pointed to a poor masterless garment, that looked greener and more outworn than ever as it hung over the back of a chair.
“Yes, deceased had certainly left his coat behind him, but he was not drunk.”
“There
